


Sun-Stung

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, Religion, Self-Mutilation, Sunburns, heatstroke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil performs a ritual in the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sun-Stung

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thief in the Dark (M_Moonshade)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/gifts).



> Based on an idea from Thief in the Dark, who is writing what I am sure will be a completely different and far superior take on shirtless in the desert! :)

He sets out before the sun comes up, while the desert is still frigid and dark. It won't be for long. He drives to a point along Route 800, then parks at the side of the road and sets off into the sagebrush and the dunes, walking until he can no longer hear the hum of traffic from the highway behind him. He finds a nice flat spot that seems relatively scorpion-free and opens up the backpack with the supplies. He drinks black coffee from a thermos as he sets up. 

The blanket goes down first. Nothing special about the blanket, it's an NVCC Alumni throw -- just something to sit on. The clay pot, the knife, and the lighter go on the blanket. The flash powder goes into the pot. The bloodstones go around the blanket. There's a precise order to them, and it takes him a minute to remember how they're supposed to go. It's been a while. He stares at them, mouthing words in a silent conversation with himself until he figures it out. It's important that this be right. 

The first rays begin to peek over the horizon as he places the final two stones. Time to start. 

He shivers in the last remnants of the overnight chill as he shucks off his sweater, his t-shirt, his socks and his sneakers. There was some difference of opinion as to the exact degree of nudity that was required, but he'd been brought up in a Reform congregation, and therefore tended to take a more moderate view of ritual. Not only that, the thought of sunburn on his shoulders is bad enough without getting more sensitive areas involved. He leaves his pants on.

He sits down on the blanket, facing east, cross-legged, right on top of the Fightin' Cephalopod (the NVCC mascot). He takes a deep breath, cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders. He's not exactly nervous, not really. It's more the mild dread one feels before dentist appointments or long bus rides that end at funerals, that feeling of wanting to dig in the heels and brace against an unpleasant near future.

The first consideration was always the sacrifice, and the sacrifice always had to be flesh and blood. For lesser matters, it could be something like ground chuck from the Ralphs. Bigger things required the supplicant to give up more than part of his or her grocery list, even if it was the organic stuff at seven bucks a pound. 

Cecil sighs and looks down at his hands. They're trembling, as if they're afraid of what's going to happen to them. He addresses his right pinky finger. 

"I'm sorry, old friend. We've had some good times." He picks up the knife, and, wincing, goes to make the cut where the pinky meets the hand, then chickens out. Maybe not _that_ far down. No need to lose the whole finger, really. He moves up to the first joint. And presses down, then lets up on the pressure before he can break the skin. It's not such a sharp knife. It probably can't make it through bone. No point in trying and failing, is there? He places the sharp edge of the blade against the very tip of the finger, clamps his eyes shut tight, and cuts.

MASTERS OF US ALL, THAT HURTS! Tears stream down his face as he opens his eyes to look down into the pot. A piece of tissue no larger than a pencil eraser lays in the bottom. Is that good enough? He looks at his finger. Barely even bleeding. Shit. Exasperated, he cuts a deep gash in his forearm and the blood streams down his arm and into the pot. That's more like it. 

The sun is fully over the horizon, now, and he begins to feel the first prickles of sweat on the back of his neck. He's also a little woozy from adrenaline and (he tells himself) blood loss. He'd better get on with things while he still can. He picks up his lighter with slick hands and ignites the flash powder. There's a brief smell of iron and meat that turns his stomach. He removes his glasses, folds them, and begins to chant, his lower eyes closed, his third eye focused on the climbing sun. 

At first, he's intensely aware of himself -- the pain in his arm and hand, the beginning sizzle on his chest and shoulders, his parched throat, the soreness in through his ass and thighs (it had been a good night), but all that begins to drift into the background as he concentrates on chanting. Then the chanting itself disappears from his consciousness, and there's nothing but consciousness itself.

He opens. Takes everything in. Small at first. The blanket. The pot and the knife. The stones.

Larger. 

The dune. The vast, scrubby, rock-strewn plain.

Larger.

Route 800. The car lot. The trailer park. 

Larger.

Night Vale. Desert Bluffs.

Larger. 

The present. 

Larger.

The past.

Larger.

The future.

Even the consciousness is gone now. There's no Cecil, no point of reference, just a pinpoint in the vastness of infinite oceans of void and substance. He's a location outside of space, a mind outside of thought. He's vision, solely, purely. 

His mission is to look forward, into the future of the place he loves. To find their deliverance. He concentrates on finding an exact point in eternity. 

He sees. He sees fire and destruction. He sees the end of many things, and beginning of many more. He searches harder, deeper. He needs to find the key. There must be a key. 

Somewhere, his body falls backward out of an upright sitting position, his back contacts the now-scalding sand, his skin begins to blister and bubble. He feels himself begin to tug farther from his body. 

Interesting. 

He turns his attention back to the search. There's got to be something. Please void, please, whatever is in the void, please. Please help. Please help Night Vale.

Back in the desert, his body temperature is rising sharply. His heart beats in a wild, runaway rhythm; his breath comes sharp and fast. His skin is dry as an old catcher's mitt. The silver cord tethering anima to corpus starts to fray, each strand breaking with palpable sproings. He brushes at the sensation, a gnat around his ear.

There, out of the corner of his vision, he sees something. Yes, there. A small detail. He goes toward it. He sees... He sees.

He sees a friendly desert community. He sees a child army led by a brilliant tactician. He sees an old woman with powerful friends who do not exist. He sees a red beacon atop a tower, and a perfect scientist in love with a charming and debonair radio host. He sees a bowling alley, and a tiny civilization underneath it. He sees a house that does not exist, and an intern that does, and a ginger-haired scoutmaster that does and does not. He sees a suspicious man with an underheating oven and an overheating tan Corolla. He sees all this, and more. He sees that the instrument of their salvation has been at hand all along, if they can only work together to use it. He sees a mighty wave and feels an incredible PULL backwards, eyes wide as infinity compresses and compresses and compresses and

SPLAT

Icy water rains down on his face. He sputters and opens his eyes to see a blurry shadow looming over him. The light from the sun is weak once again, coming from the west instead of the east.

"Cecil!" the shadow cries with Carlos' voice. "What the actual _fuck_?" 

Cecil begins to shiver as cold, wet cloth is pressed to his scalded flesh. He can't respond, but he hears Carlos muttering. 

"Stupid fucking moron coming out into the desert like this don't know what you were fucking thinking could have died..." He hears a hitch in Carlos' voice and realizes that the other man is crying. 

The next conscious thought Cecil will have will come in Night Vale General, where he'll find himself between crisp white sheets, hooked up to an IV, glared at by a _hellaciously_ pissed boyfriend, but for now, he smiles. The future of Night Vale is far from assured, but he knows that a future is possible. The rest is up to them all.


End file.
